'I think I should be editor-in-chief," said Sam. "And you should be editor-at-large."

"Then who's going to be editor?" I asked.

"Oh yeah, OK – you be editor and I'll be editor-at-large, then … we'll need someone else to be editor-in-chief."

"Do we need an editor-in-chief?" I said as Sam frantically changed the "about" page in an attempt to fulfil Google News's entry requirements for our second assault on the big time.

"It would be nice," he said, without looking up. "But who? Maybe we should put an ad on Gorkana."

"Er, maybe," I muttered. "But I'm not sure that's what Google are looking for; we need writers. To convince them this is more than just a two-man band."

Sam looked up. "What's wrong with a two man band? The Pet Shop Boys have done all right."

It seemed like a good time to refocus, from editors-at-large to writers. A few days later we reconvened at my flat.

"Right, so what have you got for me?" asked Sam, adding "Christ, do you ever wash?" as I let him in.

"Fancy a cup of tea first?" I replied, hoping to distract myself from my business partner's tactlessness, and the pile of clothes in the hallway. Sam looked at the boxer shorts. "Mrs TV is away," I explained. "Conference."

"No time," he said. "I've got all sorts to get through today. Meetings etc etc."

By "meetings" he meant seeing a young lady named Lydia - he'd spent the past week parading her on Facebook.

"Right, well, the long and short of it is we have one new writer."

"One!" exclaimed Sam.

"Yep. I asked around work, I mean ex-work, and no one there can use their own names. We might get the odd piece under a pseudonym, but that's no good for our 'about' page."

"So who's the one?" asked Sam.

"My next-door neighbour, John," I replied. "He's a good writer. He can't commit full-time, but he's happy to be called music editor and write under his own name."

"Fine," said Sam. "I've got a list of ten people here. Can you just get in touch with a few of them, work up a new submission for Google and then we can go, go, go. Look, I'm really up against it."

He handed me the list and left. It turned out Sam had put an advert on gumtree.com inviting "budding writers" to submit ideas for content. Successful applicants would receive "good rates of pay" and "international exposure".

The company was only turning over tens of pounds a month and the readership was UK-biased and in the low thousands, making it impossible to fulfil these promises, but I couldn't help but admire Sam's ingenuity.

However, leafing through the ideas, I could see why newspapers don't have an advertised open submission policy. Most of the "ideas" consisted of sub-Charlie Brooker critiques of television, either attacking EastEnders or those who attack easy targets like EastEnders. A few wrote about what happened on their favourite programme last night and called the piece an insider's blog, while one offered a timely review of Oasis's debut album Definitely Maybe.

Close to tears and ready to open my emergency bottle of white cider, I finally found something worth reading. A witty, incisive argument as to why Richard Desmond must resurrect Big Brother on Channel 5. It was perfect. I emailed Daniel, the author, saying we'd like to run his story and hoped he'd write for us in the future, but that money was tight as we were a startup. Within an hour I got a reply. He was a journalism graduate with time on his hands and was happy to write, and write for nothing.

On a high, I added John's and Daniel's names as music editor and TV editor respectively to our "about" page, and resubmitted the site to Google News.

Three days later, it happened. Sam rang. "Have you seen the stats?" We had hit 8,636 by 5pm. It was the Emma Crosby story. I typed her name into Google News, phone cradled under my ear. And there it was, between the Mail Online and the Telegraph. Sam was jabbering. But all I could think was about my shares, now worth at least £250,000.